Colourful
by glidinggriffin
Summary: The sigh was even more annoying the sixth time.


Dwalin immediately regretted tending to his axes this side of the campfire.

He paused mid-sharpening of Grasper as, yet again, Ori sighed loudly into his knitting. It was the fifth time he'd done it in the last half hour. Dwalin had obviously made a mistake in thinking the gentle click of needles would give him the solitude he sought to check over his weapons. He looked up sharply at the younger dwarf, hoping to silence him with a fierce look. But Ori wasn't looking at his work, or Dwalin's glare for that matter. He was staring longingly across the flames at the halfling who was engaging in conversation about his torn waistcoat with Bofur and stunted gesturing with Bifur. Dwalin turned back to face the scribe in dawning realisation and surprise when Ori dropped his gaze back down to the dull brown yarn clumped in his lap.

The sigh was even more annoying the sixth time.

'Blast it, youngling! Are you a yearning maiden in Dwarven clothes?!' whispered Dealing furiously as Ori jumped in fright. The yarn slipped from his lap and the needles followed with a clack.

'I-I beg your p-pardon, Master Dw-'

The warrior slid closer to the dwarf on the opposite end of the bench. Still whispering strongly he said 'You stare openly at our burglar and sigh so longingly. This behaviour isn't right, laddie! Are you not a dwarf?'

Ori looked extremely puzzled and could only stare up into the older man's eyes before replying tentatively,

'...Yes?'

Nori elbowed Dori as he noticed the imposing figure leaning over their younger brother. Dwalin eyed them before rising his armoured finger to the scribes face, who had finally found his tongue.

'I know knitting isn't really a common craft among the menfolk-'

'Now listen here, youngling! You're at an age now where you can think and act for yourself. You need to gather yourself some courage and go get what you want,' at this Dwalin pointed his finger at Bilbo 'rather than sitting here trying to make something lovely from ratty string!'

Dwalin finished gruffly just as the two brothers approached and sat down. The larger dwarf scoffed in amusement at the glares he was getting for unsettling their sibling, before collecting his weaponry and moving across the camp to sit by his own brother. Balin gave him a inquisitive look and wondered what had gotten his hardened brother so agitated. Ori watched the dwarf move with a look of awe in his eyes and his mouth open, ignoring the questions of his kin.

Not an hour later found Ori rising from his self-appointed guards to approach the hobbit helping Bombur with supper. Dwalin watched with interest. He did not expect the scribe to follow his advice so swiftly, or even at all. Ori walked right up to Bilbo and tapped him politely on the shoulder.

'Excuse me, Mister Baggins. May I have a word?'

Bilbo nodded jovially and the two walked a little ways into the forest while still keeping to the light given off by the fire, and Dwalin's line of sight. It seemed that Ori got straight to the point as he settled down on a stone facing away from the camp and the halfling stood in front of him. Gestures where made towards Bilbo, the camp and finally...Ori's lap?

Dwalin looked away in embarrassment and cursed the boy for his apparent lack of shame. It would take little for the company to focus their attention on the display going on at the edge of the campfire. And if Dori and Nori thought his own actions were inappropriate, the sight of what their little innocent brother was engaging in would surely be the end for poor old Bilbo. The hardened dwarf suddenly regretted interfering with the scribe's innocence and sneaked a peek at the two cautiously.

The halfling was taking off his clothes.

Dwalin eyes widened in utter shock at the brashness of the two. The cheek of them! He turned to Balin and pointed to Bilbo and Ori with a grunt of outrage. Balin looked up quickly then confusedly back at his Dwalin.

'Brother, what ails you?'

'Those cretins!' And he looked back to see the offenders walking back to the encampment chatting amiably, with Ori holding Bilbo's torn waistcoat.

Dwalin was at a loss for words. He was sure they were...

'I hardly think it's a crime for Ori to procure some new threads for weaving. He's been eyeing up Mister Baggins' ruined waistcoat for some time. Mahal knows he'd get sick of working with the same dull colours. That yellow fabric should make him a nice new scarf or hat. And don't be so hard on him for his knitting, brother. The boy looks up to you and sadness doesn't suit his face when you disregard him so'.

Dwalin huffed and returned his gaze to Keeper. Surprised at this misunderstanding, he thought on the words he exchanged with Ori earlier and how the youth must have assumed he was telling him to pursue some fabric! Well, at least he gave the dwarf courage to go get what he wanted. Be it love, or a torn waistcoat.

Dwalin found that, surprisingly, he was a little relieved.

The Dwarven people rarely felt the need for bright hues and rich colours in their clothes and crafts. The bountiful rubies, sapphires and emeralds that filled their treasure halls were more practical to be coveted and admired than worn.

So most dwarves wore blacks, greys and browns with a dark blue about as colourful as robes got.

Except for Ori.

Ori wore a bright yellow scarf he fashioned for himself from the ruined remains of a waistcoat belonging to Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

He wore it through Mirkwood, on the Lonely Mountain, facing Smaug and during the reclaiming of Erebor. It was here that young Ori finally worked up the courage to give the great warrior Dwalin Son of Fundin a small yellow bracelet made of familiar fabric to wrap around his wrist. Dwalin accepted the gift with a simple smile and allowed the smaller dwarf to tie it on tightly so it shouldn't fall off.

It was over. The battle was won. All over were fallen comrades and allies but more enemies could be seen as the warrior searched the field. Dwalin wiped black blood from his eyes, careful to use the hand without the yellow band around it's wrist. Ori would be upset if it got dirty.

And where was the scribe? Oin had remarked that he had seen the dwarf shooting foes viciously with his sling at this side of the embankment. But Ori was no where to be seen. Dwalin refused to believe the likely outcome, that the young dwarf had succumbed to the enemy forces, but turned his gaze to the ground in apprehension. All orcs lay here with scatterings of elves and men lying in a sea of red, black and a strange spot of yellow.

Yellow?

'Ori!'

Dwalin rushed to the slumped figure lying prone underneath three dead orcs. He pulled the corpses from the dwarf and leaned down to check his breathing. It was slow, but steady. A trickle of blood flowed from a gash high on Ori's forehead, under his hair.

'Dw'lin?'

'Quiet, Ori. You'll be alright. I've got you.'

Dwalin hefted Ori up onto his back and trod quickly back to the healing tents. The journey was not long but he moved briskly, careful not to jolt his passenger. He jogged briefly with worry over the body of a young Laketown man until Ori whimpered in pain.

'M' arm,' he groaned. 'Nori? Dori?'

'Waiting for you, laddie. Rest for now. Save your strength. Your brothers are fine.'

Dwalin didn't mention the King or the princes. Pangs hit his own heart at the thought. He thanked Mahal that the youth was alive, if a little concussed and broken. That he could focus on Ori for now would stay the sorrow of losing his friend.

'We'll be fine.'

'Th'nk you'

Dwalin found that, unsurprisingly, he was more than a little relieved.


End file.
